


Diner Blues

by Cody_kun



Category: DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Diners, M/M, big burly men, wandering around at night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cody_kun/pseuds/Cody_kun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After another night of fighting at home, Aoba decides to take a walk. Who he meets at the local diner, however, is the last person he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coffee, Black

**Author's Note:**

> I dunnoooo  
> //procrastinates on updating three's a crowd  
> I will soon, I promise ;;;;;; I have over half of the chapter written I just  
> ////nervous becca noises  
> SO THIS HAPPENED INSTEAD  
> I have lots more planned for this uvu including smut and things  
> I just needed another story to get the creative juices flowing bc I've been in a major rut
> 
> also!! my girlfriend and I have started adapting our rp into another minao story: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3213893  
> we should have the second chapter up soon uvu
> 
> enjoy!!

He needed to get away.

That house was insane; it _drove_ him insane. The yelling, the screaming, the name-calling and everything else no one ever needed to hear was relentless, never-ending. He couldn't take another second.

So he left.

It was a terrible night to be outside, dark and dreary, the sky black with clouds. It was chilly and rainy and Aoba hadn't thought to bring more than a thin jacket, but this was okay, this was fine, because he could breathe, finally, without someone else telling him just how to do it.

He walked.

On a night such as this, things were quieter than normal—shops were closed-up, windows dark and displays barren, and the streets were free aside from a few cars and people sprinting through the cold with thick jackets hugged close and laughter cutting through the chilly air. Aoba felt something stab at his chest, but he didn't know what it was; all he knew was that he wanted that, what they seemed to have—a sense of being carefree, of being lighter than this. At nearly eighteen, Aoba had trouble remembering what that was like.

He didn't wander far—he knew his 'parents' would look for him soon, as they always did—only to the end of the main street and the diner that sat on the corner, its bright, fluorescent, '24/7' sign stinging his eyes as he squinted up at it. He huffed, breath a white cloud against the air, and snuggled deeper into his thin jacket, realizing only then that he was shaking.

It didn't take him long to head inside.

The bell chimed as he opened the door and a waitress, sitting at the counter, perked up, blonde bob swaying as she threw him a grin.

"Welcome!" she said, hurrying over, smoothing out her swishing skirt as she did. Her smile didn't falter, not even when Aoba glared up at her, soaking wet and looking like nothing more than a half-drowned street rat.

"Can I get you anything?" Her voice was softer now, somehow, something like pity shining through. Aoba's lip curled.

"Broke. Cold. Just wanna sit." He shifted, eyeing her up-and-down. "Okay?"

She blinked, then nodded slowly, letting out a little sigh as she stepped aside.

"Okay."

Aoba brushed past her.

Truth be told, the smell of waffles and bacon made his stomach gurgle and his mouth water so terribly he had to swallow. He was hungry—starving, really, but it's not like that was anything new. His foster parents weren't exactly chefs, nor were they very good at keeping the fridge stocked full of more than beer and moldy slices of processed cheese; dollar-menu fast food sounded like a gourmet meal nine times out of ten.

Aoba settled in the booth farthest away from the entrance, only just beginning to defrost as he huddled up, knees to his chest, teeth chattering. He didn't want to go back, but he knew he needed to eventually; it's not like he could hide forever.

Only one more month, and he was free.

He gritted his teeth as he shook and let out a hard breath. Sure, he'd be eighteen—the prophesied age of 'freedom'—but what came after that? He had no job, no parents, no living family he knew of—he'd be better off dead with odds like those.

He'd had that thought a lot lately.

"Welcome!" Aoba perked up as the waitress swished by again, stopping to greet a man almost two heads taller at the door. "Can I get you anything?"

She was much too perky for Aoba's liking.

The man eyed her for a moment before nodding, lips moving quickly—but he spoke so quietly Aoba coudn't catch a word.

"Coming right up—sit wherever you'd like," the waitress said, bouncing away after throwing him one more smile. "How do you take it?"

"Black is fine," the man said, voice just a bit louder, shrugging off his jacket as he stepped deeper into the nearly-vacant restaurant.

Ah. So he'd ordered coffee.

Aoba watched him intently as he moved, settling in a few booths down, facing Aoba's way. He looked up for just a moment, catching Aoba's gaze—even from this distance Aoba could tell his eyes were something incredible—then looked down at the menu on the table. Aoba did the same.

The pictures made his stomach grumble and he huffed, shoving the menu away before whipping his head to the window, frowning worse when he noticed the state of the weather. It seemed like it was getting worse out there—he might be stuck here all night if things kept up.

He didn't mind that idea.

"Here you go!" the waitress said, setting a steaming cup of coffee in front of the man with a little clank and a thousand-watt smile. "Can I get anything else for you, or do you need a few minutes?"

The man blinked up at her, then let out a sigh and spoke once more—again, he spoke too quietly for Aoba to hear.

"O-Oh—" The waitress blinked, then looked to Aoba; they caught eyes and she looked away quickly, turning on her heel so her back faced Aoba's way. Aoba blinked.

Now, he couldn't hear a thing.

Clicking his tongue, he curled in on himself even worse, pouting against his knees. He was hungry and cold and wet and tired and he didn't want this, he didn't want people acting like he was some kind of disease, some kind of plague, some kind of—

"Can I get you something to drink, sweetheart?"

Aoba jolted.

"U-Uh—" He whipped his head up to the waitress. He blinked quite a few times, then peeked around her, peeked to the empty seat opposite himself, and brought his eyes back to her smiling face. "...You talkin' to me?"

The girl nodded.

"The man over there—" She jerked her head to the side, "said you can order whatever you'd like, on him." She beamed at Aoba. "Would you like some hot chocolate?"

Aoba gave her a look of pure awe.

"U-Uh—" He blinked quickly, combing a hand through his damp hair. "S-Sure? I mean—fuck, no, I want a—" Aoba's eyes darted up to the man, then back to the waitress, back-and-forth and back-and-forth and—

"I want coffee. Black."

The lady tilted her head, then nodded.

"Alright, sweetheart," she said with another smile; it was noticeably dimmer, but Aoba looked back to the dark window before he could think over what that meant. "Coming right up."

She bounced away then, leaving Aoba still shivering, still hungry, but now, more confused than ever.

Things like this didn't happen.

Aoba peeled his eyes away from the rain-streaked window and to the man who sat four booths away. They caught eyes yet again, and the man nodded, then looked back down to the menu; Aoba did the same.

Whatever he wanted, huh?

Aoba was skeptical—was this some kind of joke?—but he couldn't deny that the thought was tempting. Even if it were a joke, he could always eat his fill then run like hell; he was faster than anyone he knew, that was for sure, and it wouldn't be the first time it happened.

Pancakes. Waffles. Eggs and bacon. _Everything_ looked good.

Within a minute or so, the woman came back, setting down a cup of coffee on a saucer with a quick, "be back in a minute, hun," before bouncing away and to the other booth. Aoba peeked up for just a moment, scowling at the little tubs of cream and packets of sugar set beside his steaming drink on the table, then sighed, looked back to the menu, and made a quick decision on what he wanted.

The woman was back within a minute, as promised, a little notepad in hand. Aoba ordered; she bounced away. Now came the interesting part.

As he picked up his coffee—leaving the creamers and sugar right where they belonged—he stepped down the lane and to the man's booth, slipping into the seat across from him, face entirely blank. He set his coffee down; the man didn't look up.

"You normally buy food for strangers?"

The man shrugged one shoulder.

"You looked hungry."

"That's weird."

The man didn't respond.

Huffing, Aoba crossed his arms and slid deeper into his seat, not moving his foot when it pressed against something hard underneath the table. Be it the table's leg or the man's foot, he didn't have any idea. He didn't care.

"You're not very good at conversation, are you?"

"Not when it's uninvited."

Aoba's lip curled.

"Look—I didn't ask for your sympathy. I ain't complainin' about free food, but this is fuckin' weird." The man finally glanced up; Aoba's breath caught. His eyes were the purest shade of gold he'd ever seen.

"Don't think of it as sympathy, then." The man looked back down; Aoba did as well, only now noticing the newspaper that seemed to have grabbed the man's interest. He scowled.

"It's still weird," he mumbled, crossing his arms tightly. "What are you tryin' to get out of this? In case you haven't noticed, I ain't some cute girl with big tits. I've got a dick, believe it or not."

The man's eyebrow twitched.

"I have no ulterior motive," he said, turning the page of the newspaper with a quick lick of his finger. "And you're quite obviously male."

"First time I've heard that." Aoba shifted in his seat, eyeing his coffee with a little huff. He'd never had it black before, but…

Reaching forward, he grabbed the cup, brought it to his lips, and took a sip.

...It was fucking _awful._

"Ugh." He slammed the cup down, grimacing and wiping the back of his mouth as he did. "That tastes like _shit."_

The man glanced up, one eyebrow raised.

"It's black. What did you expect?"

Aoba, cheeks darkening fast, shrugged one shoulder. "I-I dunno," he said, squirming uncomfortably. "N-Not... _that."_

The man huffed.

"Coffee and sugar are good for children."

Aoba's face darkened.

"I ain't a kid."

The man looked back down, clearly disinterested; Aoba leaned forward.

"I'm not!" He slammed his fists against the table, pulse racing faster; the silverware and mugs clanged. "I might look young, but I'm, I'm—" His mind raced and his vision flickered to the table, then back up. "I'm twenty."

The man finally spared Aoba a glance.

"...Twenty?"

Aoba nodded furiously.

"Yeah. So I'm not just some kid, alright?" The lady bounced back with two plates of pancakes, setting them down as Aoba leaned back. "I'm an adult."

The man's eyes drifted to the waitress and he gave her a little look. "Whatever you say."

They ate in silence; it wasn't exactly strained, surprisingly enough, but it wasn't purely comfortable, either. Regardless of his odd company, Aoba was just glad to eat—and before he knew it, his pancakes were gone, leaving a pool of syrup swimming with crumbs in their wake.

He settled back with a little huff, grimacing as his stomach gurgled, churning so badly he felt sick. After taking a few deep breaths, he tilted his head back and let out a little sigh.

Well, at least he'd eaten today.

"...Thanks." He cracked his eyes open, glancing at the man. "I was hungry."

"Clearly." The man's tone was flat; he wasn't even half done with his own plate. "You can order something else if you'd like. I'll be here for a while."

Aoba gaped.

"...Okay, what the fuck?" He leaned forward and snatched the newspaper away, stowing it in his lap. The man looked up, expression mildly annoyed; Aoba chuckled. "Talk first, then you can read all you want. I just want answers."

"I have none," the man huffed. "Give it back."

"Nope." Aoba grinned. "You come into some diner at midnight, catch eyes with some frumpy-lookin' kid, and all of a sudden buy him food? Be straight with me—you want my ass or not?"

The man's face was entirely blank.

"Give it back."

"Give me answers."

"No."

Aoba scowled.

He leaned back, crossing his arms, paper crumpling worse as he held it tightly. "Just be straight with me."

"I am." The man sounded exasperated, but in an oddly controlled manner given all that had happened; Aoba's pulse picked up. "You looked hungry, so I bought you a meal. There's nothing more to it."

"You some kinda good samaritan or somethin'?"

"If it will get you to shut up, then let that serve as an explanation." The man held out his hand. "Paper. Now."

With a huff, Aoba smacked it against his palm.

"...So I can order whatever I want?"

"That is what I said." The man set the paper back on the table and smoothed it out. "Order half of the menu—I don't care. Just don't interrupt me again."

Aoba blinked, eyebrows arching high.

"...Okay."

He didn't quite order half of the menu, but he did get himself another stack of pancakes, some bacon, a cup of hot chocolate, and two fried eggs. His stomach gurgled in glee and he grinned at the waitress, mood rising higher and higher the fuller his stomach was.

By the time he finished the second part of his meal, his smile was almost real.

"...Thanks."

The man nodded.

"No need." As he folded the paper up and slid it to the side, Aoba's smile faltered.

"Headin' out?"

The man nodded again.

"It's late. I'm tired." He leaned back with a sigh, shifting in his seat to pat his pocket and fish out his wallet. "I take it you don't live far?"

Aoba blinked.

"...Uh...not really." He glanced to the window, grimacing just a tad; that downpour would be a _blast_ to walk in. "...Weather's kinda shitty."

The man snorted.

"Do you need a ride?"

Aoba leaned back in his seat and squinted hard.

"...You gonna murder me?"

The man met Aoba's gaze, clearly unamused.

"...Do I look like a murderer to you?"

Aoba took that moment to _really_ look at the man—tanned skin, bent nose, bright eyes, dark hair, bulging muscles, sleeves of tattoos—

"...Kinda?"

The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Have fun in the rain."

He stood then, jacket in hand, heading to the front counter to pay the woman; Aoba sputtered and got to his feet, struggling to keep up with the man's wide strides.

"I was kidding!" He panted as he stopped, hands on his hips as he bent over just a bit. "Please gimme a ride? I don't got any cash, obviously, but I'm like, a mile away, tops. I'm on King's street."

The man huffed, pulling his credit card back from the woman and slipping it into his wallet.

"Have you ever ridden a motorcycle before?"

"...A couple of times."

The man's eyes swung to Aoba's face and he squinted at him; his hard gaze made Aoba squirm.

Then, without another word, he headed for the door.

With a curse muttered under his breath, Aoba scampered along behind him, struggling to keep up; not only was the man huge, but he was fast, and the combination wasn't easy on Aoba's legs.

"Is that a yes, then?" Aoba shouted to be heard over the rain slapping against the concrete, but the man didn't offer him any response aside from a quick look and a barely-there nod as he slid his jacket on. Aoba was hopeful, to say the least, and followed behind rather sheepishly, flicking his hood up as he paused beside the man's large motorcycle.

Then, the man handed him a helmet.

Aoba took it with wide, unblinking eyes, then looked to the man's face, back to the helmet, to the man's face one more time, and slipped it on.

"...Thanks." His voice was muffled; he swung one leg over the side of the motorcycle, struggling to get on as he stepped off the curb and flailing as his arms wound tightly around the man's waist. He felt his cheeks burn behind the helmet, and shifted on the wet seat, trying his hardest to keep his chest as far away from the man's back as possible given the situation.

Soon, the motorcycle revved to life.

Aoba squeaked, burying his face against the man's back as they took off not a moment later—it was a rush, a thrill to move so quickly, from zero to fifty in hardly an instant; his body shook and his mind raced as they sped along the dark street.

For the first time in years, Aoba noted, he felt strangely at ease, all because of a man he'd only just met and a free meal he didn't ask for.

The ride didn't last nearly long enough, in Aoba's opinion; within a few minutes they turned onto the road Aoba had come to hate, slowing down a good bit as the man turned around and asked: "Which house?"

"Third one down."

He pulled up a bit farther, then came to a stop, legs slapping against the ground as he steadied the motorcycle.

Aoba, with a sad little sigh, pulled his arms away, and took the helmet off. For a moment, all he did was sit, quiet with thoughts gloomier than the weather. Tonight was a nice distraction, he had to admit, but tomorrow, things would be exactly the same, and this night would be nothing but a memory he was likely to confuse as a pleasant, albeit vivid, dream.

"...Thank you." Aoba's voice was quiet; he slid off the motorcycle and swallowed hard, looking to the front door of his house. The lights were all off, so, with any luck, everyone would be asleep; that was a hope he couldn't give up on.

The man nodded.

"Be safe," he said; Aoba gave him a questioning look before the man slipped the helmet over his own wet head. Only then did Aoba realize he'd driven without a helmet of his own despite the rain; he knew that must have stung.

"I...you too?"

The man's eyes squinted behind the visor; Aoba wondered if he was smiling.

"It was a pleasure to meet you…" His voice trailed off as though he was waiting for something; Aoba jumped, face reddening worse, hand combing through his hair.

"A-Aoba. That's my name."

The man nodded.

"Mink."

And then, before Aoba could say anything else, the motorcycle revved to life once more and Mink sped off, leaving Aoba gaping behind him, wondering how on Earth tonight had come to be.


	2. Are You Shitting Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp  
> this happened
> 
> self-beta'd sORRY

Aoba was right.

After that surreal night, things went right back to normal. His room needed a new light bulb; the one in the fridge flickered, casting shadows on the barren shelves; the faucet in the hall bathroom was leaky; his foster-siblings were obnoxiously loud; the house smelled like pot and cheap cigarettes.

Nothing was magically fixed.

It's not like he expected it to be, really—he wasn't an idiot, even if he felt like one more times than not. He knew that when he came home, this house would be frozen in time, though blessedly quiet until the sun rose.

And it was.

His parents' fight (whatever it was about) resumed the next day, him caught in the crossfire, the constant battle of he-said, she-said. It was never-ending.

Say the 'wrong' thing, get beat. Say the 'right' thing, get yelled at. Say nothing at all, get shunned. He couldn't win.

So, when he found himself slipping out again the next night when his parents' bloodshot eyes were off of him for more than a second, he wasn't truly surprised.

It was a nicer evening, though still a bit too cold for Aoba's liking; luckily, he'd brought a heavier jacket this time around, even if his face still stung from the air biting at his cheeks.

He didn't know what he expected to find, really. The diner was open, as always; one of the lights on the sign flickered out as he walked past. He wondered if it was an omen.

When the bell chimed and he finally stepped inside, shivering just a bit, the man wasn't there; he noticed his absence immediately. It's not like he was difficult to miss.

Aoba could have laughed at his own foolishness—what was he hoping for? Another free meal, another night of pity? Was he honestly that desperate for attention?

He knew the answer to that question.

With a sigh, he settled into the booth he sat in last time, before that man stormed in and brightened up his night just a little. There was a different waitress on duty tonight, but she was older, slower, and much less interested in gaining good tips by the looks of it.

At some point, when Aoba got a little too groggy to gaze out the foggy window, too drained from a long day of screaming and shouting to keep himself from nodding off, he rested his head against the table, made a pillow with his arms, and let his mind drift.

Vaguely, distantly, he heard the sound of a bell; he didn't know how much time had passed, or if he was even awake at all. He heard someone step inside; he heard the sound of hushed voices. And then, he felt someone nudge his arm.

"Wake up."

Aoba's eyelashes fluttered and he let out a weak moan, shifting in place, burying his face deeper against his arm. He was tired; his eyes were heavy; he wanted to _sleep._

Somebody sighed.

"...Just what kind of parents do you have?"

Aoba cracked a smile.

Ah, he knew who this was.

"Shitty ones," he mumbled, mouth pressed against his arm.

Another sigh rang out; Aoba heard the man shift, and maybe, just maybe, as Aoba heard the crack of leather, the man may have slid into the seat across from him. Aoba's chest warmed.

"They've been discussing calling the police—the waitress and the cook. They don't take kindly to delinquents falling asleep without ordering so much as a coffee."

Aoba laughed.

"...M'bad." He cracked one eye open, then the other. "...Can I get one o' those? A coffee?" His voice held a hopeful note, as did his blurry eyes, and the man sighed with a small nod.

"That's fine."

The night got better.

After half of his mug was drained—and this time he'd added three creams and two sugars despite the blow to his pride—Aoba's mind began to clear, his cheeks went red, and he stuttered out a: "Sorry."

The man raised an eyebrow.

"For?"

Aoba looked to his lap.

"For showing up again." He gestured towards the man—what was his name? Mink?—with his mug before setting it back down. "I'm surprised you're even here."

"I could say the same."

Aoba frowned.

"...I don't know why I showed up again." He crossed his arms, shifting where he sat. "Home was loud, so…I guess..." He shrugged, eyes on the shiny orange table-top. "Sorry."

"Stop saying that." Mink sighed and crossed his arms as well, staring at Aoba down the bridge of his nose. "How old are you, really? You sure as hell aren't twenty."

Aoba glared, eyes hard and narrow.

"...I am."

Mink lifted an eyebrow; Aoba deflated.

"I'm seventeen. B-But—" He slammed his open palms against the table. "I'll be eighteen in a month—no, shit, _less_ than a month now. So I'm not a kid, alright?" He slid back, hands slipping off of the table and wrapping around his chest. He squeezed himself tightly. "I'm _not."_

"Whatever you say."

The waitress sauntered over then, frizzy brown hair pinned up high, makeup caked on much too thickly—she was sixty at the absolute youngest.

"Can I get anything for you two?" She sounded bored, her voice a low drawl, notepad carelessly flipped open as she gave them each a quick glance. "Tonight's special is—"

"We'll take two." Mink waved her off, eyes on Aoba's face; Aoba physically _felt_ his cheeks warming under Mink's hard scrutiny.

The lady, with a cocked eyebrow and a muttered, "Alright, then," walked off, flipping her notepad closed as her hips swung. Mink tilted his head just barely, hand reaching for his own mug of coffee: black, Aoba noticed, just like last night.

"Why?"

Aoba blinked.

"Wha—"

"Being seen as a child. Why do you despise it so greatly?"

Aoba hugged himself tighter.

"...'Cause kids don't got a say in shit." He bit his lip hard. "They get bossed around, told what to do no matter what just 'cause adults 'know better.' Even if shit's got nothin' to do with them, adults always know what's best. So I wanna be an adult."

Saying it out loud sounded stupid, Aoba had to admit; he could practically feel steam coming out of his ears, he was so embarrassed, so _humiliated_. But when Mink didn't laugh, didn't make so much as a peep, Aoba chanced a peek up.

The man didn't blink.

"Who do you live with?"

Aoba's eyebrows scrunched together.

"My foster parents."

"Are they good to you?"

Aoba didn't say a word; he looked at the table.

"Can't complain."

Mink's eyes narrowed.

"Those aren't the words of someone without complaints—a lot of them, at that."

Aoba lifted one shoulder.

"One month left."

"And then?"

Aoba's heart pounded.

"...'Dunno."

He knew, all right, but he wasn't going to say it.

"I'll figure somethin' out. Done it before."

His stomach hurt.

Mink watched him the entire time he spoke, Aoba noticed as he dragged his eyes away from the table. Forcing the toughest look he had onto his face, followed by a half-assed grin, Aoba said: "What? Don't think I can do it?"

"That's not the point." Mink's voice was hard, cutting. "Believe it or not, you're not going to make it."

Aoba's expression dropped.

"Wha—"

"You aren't stupid." Mink stared into his coffee then; Aoba was happy for the break in his harsh appraisal. "But you need more than 'figuring something out.' That isn't how the real world works."

Aoba swallowed down a lump.

"...I know." He slumped forward. "...Trust me."

Mink's face creased.

"You aren't happy there, clearly, but turning eighteen won't magically fix your life."

Aoba's eyes pricked.

"...I know."

Mink leaned forward.

"Aoba." Aoba blinked at the table, tears plopping out fast; he lifted his hand and quickly wiped them away. "Do you have a job?"

Aoba shook his head.

"Do you need one?"

After a second's pause, Aoba nodded.

Mink leaned back.

"Motorcycles. What do you know about them?"

Aoba peeked up, squinting hard at Mink's face; his eyes were blurry.

"Not...much."

"Can you learn?"

Aoba nodded slowly.

"...Probably."

Mink's eyes drifted to the waitress as she set down two plates stacked high with fluffy pancakes, crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs. She didn't say a word: not about the blubbering teenager with messy blue hair or the rugged man who looked like he could kill someone with two fingers and a toothpick. What a pair they must have made; Aoba wondered if she'd had worse.

"I may have a job for you."

Aoba's eyes widened.

Slowly, he sank back in his seat, teary eyes wide. He didn't blink.

"...You're shitting me, right?"

Mink lifted an eyebrow.

"Ask that question again."

Aoba gave a shaky smile.

"...Are you an angel are somethin'?" Mink's eyebrows scrunched together; Aoba laughed. "I'm serious. You're _kinda_ too good to be true."

"...No." Mink's lips twitched. "Just someone who's seen his own share of hard times." Mink, lifting up his fork, motioned to Aoba. "Eat."

Aoba nodded, face full of nothing but admiration for this man he barely knew, this man who'd shown him sympathy for a reason Aoba couldn't quite comprehend. His chest felt warm, as did his stomach; it gurgled and he grabbed his fork, tucking into his plate with the vigor of a man reborn.

He paused.

"...Thank you."

"Just eat."

Aoba smiled against the back of his hand.

* * *

 

They stuck around for a bit longer after their plates were empty, Mink going on about the details of Aoba's new job as Aoba fought his hardest against the pull of sleep. His head lay on the table and his eyes felt as though weights were tied to them, dragging them down more and more with each passing second. Eventually, Mink went silent—mid-sentence, at that—and let out a short snort.

"Tired?"

Aoba nodded just barely.

"...A 'lil bit."

"I suppose you need another ride?"

"If's not too much trouble."

"You're nothing _but_ trouble."

Aoba pouted, cracking one eye open to glare up at Mink; but Mink had already gotten to his feet, wallet in hand. Aoba huffed, watching him walk to the counter before his eye slipped shut and his mind grew blurry.

"Hey." Mink's hand clapped down on his shoulder and Aoba jolted up with a small yelp.

"D-Don't—" He held a hand over his heart; it beat so fast it hurt. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

Mink lifted an eyebrow, but didn't say another word; silently, after Aoba recovered enough to stand, he and Aoba left that small, empty diner, braving the cold once more.

And that's where their story began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading <333 oh god i'm  
> i'm excited for this story  
> ///////vibrates  
> i promise it'll get more interesting bear with me here
> 
> please leaves kudos or a comment if you'd be so inclined <3 ouo
> 
> until next time!!


	3. Liar, Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> half of this was written like six months ago and the other half like six minutes ago BUT  
> yeah  
> TRIES TO BECOME ACTIVE  
> TRIES SO HARD
> 
> also! i was at sacanime as sly last weekend lmao  
> also rhyme ren  
> i may have gone overboard with the fuckin' fake blood tho oops  
> there were hella cute dmmd cosplayers there and ahh yes it was fun v fun  
> anyways
> 
> HERE'S TO HOPEFULLY BECOMING ACTIVE AGAIN

His job was simple: clean up up after everyone else until he got the hang of things—and there was quite a lot to "get the hang of."

"S-Sorry—" Aoba narrowly avoided being run over by a man twice his size; he threw him a sheepish grin, but the man didn't spare him so much as a glance as he blew on past, to the front desk where the receptionist sat. Aoba huffed, pushing the door leading to the garage open; Mink's clients were interesting, to say the least.

The job wasn't bad, Aoba had to admit; aside from a few hardasses and disgruntled customers, Mink's shop was surprisingly nice. It was certainly cleaner than Aoba expected, seeing how it was run by none other than Mink himself and Mink wasn't exactly the picture that came to mind when visualizing someone in charge (of more than a gang, that is). But still—it got Aoba out of the house, and gave him a bit of extra cash. He couldn't find a downside.

"Where are you going?"

Aoba paused, jacket hugged tightly across his chest, door swinging shut behind him to the tinkling of a bell. He shivered.

"Home." Aoba shrugged one shoulder, looking to the ground; all he could see were Mink's feet peeking out from underneath an old Chevy. "I did all the shit you assigned me. The bathroom's clean— _you're welcome,_ by the way; it was fuckin' _gross_ —and I swept up all the shit people dropped." He shrugged again, though he knew Mink couldn't see him. "I ain't got nothin' else to do. I'm clockin' out."

Mink sighed and slid out from underneath the car, eyes squinted as he was exposed to the glare of the setting sun.

"What's waiting for you at home?"

Aoba frowned.

"What's it to you?"

Mink frowned right back.

"You haven't met everyone yet." He sat up slowly, setting a large wrench down beside him on the asphalt. "How was your first day?"

Aoba huffed.

" _Fine._ Busywork, but you're payin' me nine bucks an hour—I can't complain." He grinned. "When's my first paycheck comin', by the way?"

"You'll get paid the Friday of every other week."

"Why not the Friday of _every_ week?"

Mink raised an eyebrow; Aoba laughed.

" _Kidding."_ His smile dimmed, cheeks flushing just a bit as he dragged his gaze to the ground. "...I'm gonna pay you back, you know."

"For what?"

Aoba glared.

"For the _food._ Once I get my first check, I'm gonna take you out, alright?" Hesitantly, Aoba peered up, locking eyes with Mink almost immediately; the man's face was unreadable.

"You don't have to do that."

"Never said I did."

Mink let out the quietest chuckle Aoba had ever heard.

"You're stubborn," Mink sighed, getting to his feet and wiping his greasy hands on his blue jeans, leaving black streaking down the legs. "But I've never been one to say no to a free meal."

Aoba grinned, bouncing in place. "Good. Now—what's happenin'? I'm fuckin' c-cold—" He gritted his teeth; they chattered. "How're you _out_ here all day?"

"Practice."

"...Shut up."

Mink smirked down at Aoba; Aoba glared right up.

"Dinner." Mink headed towards the door once more, leaving Aoba blinking behind him before he, with a disgruntled expression, finally decided to follow.

"Where?"

"There's a place down the road my employees and I frequent."

Aoba lifted an eyebrow, catching the door behind Mink and stepping inside. "What kinda place? Not that diner again, right? I mean, their food's good, but—"

"No." Mink waved his hand. "It's different."

"...Okay."

"Hey, Mink!"

Aoba's eyes widened; he stepped out from behind Mink, peering up at a man not-quite Mink's height, slouched-over with his hands buried deep in his pockets. His hair was blond, his eyes were blue, and his ears were so full of rings Aoba wondered how much skin he had left.

"We eating out tonight, boss man?"

Mink grunted, brushing on past. Aoba scrambled to follow, pausing only when the guy with the earrings clapped a hand against his shoulder, making him reel back with a muted yelp.

"Newbie." He grinned down at Aoba. "You were so quiet today! Me and the boys never even got your name."

"Uh…" Aoba blinked. This was a question that always made his heart thump, his thoughts race, his mouth grow just a bit drier—

"...Call me Sly."

He hadn't used that name in a while.

"Sly…" The man's eyes drifted to the wall and he nodded, like he was tasting the name, trying it out. Aoba thought he was weird. "I like it!" He threw another grin Aoba's way and opened his mouth—was that a _tongue_ ring?—before Mink called for Aoba, Aoba tossed the guy a sheepish grin, and finally managed to shake off his hand and scramble away.

"He talks too much. Overly friendly." Mink's voice wasn't low at all; the guy whined, making Aoba smirk as he flipped up his hood. "Not a bad employee, but if you're in a hurry, stay clear of him."

"I can _hear_ you!"

"That was my intention."

Aoba thought he'd be just fine.

* * *

"I think you'll like this place," the guy with the earrings said as he pulled open the restaurant door (his name was Ishi, Aoba soon learned). "Cheap, but a ton of food—not bad quality, either."

Mink stepped in behind them, deep in the midst of conversation with another employee—Aoba thought his name was Mizuki, but, then again, he wasn't very good with names.

"That's...good." Aoba shifted in place as they got into line, but he couldn't stop throwing looks Mink's way. It was strange, talking to someone else in his presence—almost unnerving, even if the employee _was_ nice.

"We come here two or three times a week, depending on how late we close up shop," Ishi went on. "Boss man usually treats us, unless one of the other guys offers—even then, it's like pulling teeth getting him _not_ to pay. Sometimes, he throws his wallet down so fast we can't even stop 'im."

Aoba's stomach dropped.

"...For real?" He shifted once again, gnawing on his inner cheek. So Mink was usually generous? "He seems all tough but he's actually real nice, huh?"

"Yep!" Ishi beamed. "Nicest guy I've met in a while—don't let the tattoos and stone-face fool you."

Aoba threw him a weak smile.

"Never did."

"New guy!"

Aoba whipped his head behind him, blinking at a man slightly closer to his own height _(finally_ —he felt like he was surrounded by giants).

"My name is Mizuki." So Aoba _was_ right. "It's nice to meet you."

Aoba grinned and gave a short nod. "Same goes for you."

Mizuki smiled back; he looked friendly. "And what's your name? Things were so hectic earlier, we didn't get a chance to actually talk." He gave a sheepish little smile. "Sorry about that."

"Ah…" Aoba blinked. "Sly."

Mink raised an eyebrow from where he stood; Aoba whipped his head away, suddenly embarrassed. So what if he had a nickname?

"Next!"

Aoba blinked, watching as Ishi stepped up to the window, pointing and asking for different ingredients to be thrown onto a tortilla twice the size of Aoba's head. It was a burrito bar, or something like that, Aoba soon figured out as he watched the monstrosity his coworker created. His stomach grumbled— _loudly_.

"Hungry?" Mizuki laughed, patting him on the back; Aoba smirked, then chuckled, then nodded twice, shifting on his feet as he waited for his turn.

"A little bit."

And as Mink chuckled from a few paces behind him, Aoba felt his little smile grow.

* * *

After everyone had finished eating and parted ways, Aoba stood as well with a full stomach and his own goodbye—but, of course, it wasn't nearly as easy to leave as he'd hoped it would be.   
  
Mink offered to take him home again (surprise, surprise), but Aoba refused in favor of walking. Mink pushed; Aoba was stubborn. And, eventually, he was able to leave.

But coming home was never the highlight of his day.

As soon as the front door shut behind him, Aoba heard a snort—a sound he hated, a sound that meant one thing: his foster dad was drunk.

Surprise, surprise.

"Well, look who's finally home," the man slurred, standing from the couch; Aoba's foster mom watched with vacant, glazed-over eyes. "Just where the hell you been, Aoba?"

Aoba dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Workin'—I told you this mornin'," he said, rolling his shoulders, rubbing his arms, "I got a job."

His foster dad blinked, like the words didn't register.

And then, he laughed.

"A _job?"_ He snorted again; Aoba stiffened. "A freeloader like you, workin'? Ain't that a good joke."

"S'not a joke," Aoba mumbled to the floor; but his eyes, as he finally looked up, were bright with defiance. "I got a timeslip and everythin'—"

"You talkin' back?"

Aoba gave his own snort.

"Tryin' to have a real conversation ain't talkin' back, _dad."_

His foster dad took a step forward, bottle in hand; he raised it, waving it around, the contents sloshing. Aoba watched the bottle with wary eyes.

"You've been on thin ice for a while now, kiddo—and this talk about workin'—" He waved the bottle again, a sneer curling his lips. "I don't think I believe you, not with how much you been sneakin' out. And today—" His foster dad shook his head. "You been gone for a real long time."

Aoba gaped.

How drunk _was_ he?

"Look—I ain't lyin', if that's what you're sayin'." Why was he stepping closer? Aoba could hardly breathe. "Really—I got a job! It's at this little garage—I'm gonna work on cars and motorcycles—"

"Hush up," his foster dad snapped. "Stop sneakin' out, stop lyin', stop smokin' dope, and maybe we won't kick your lazy ass out the second the fundin' stops."

Aoba curled his fists.

"You're one to talk," he gritted, teeth clenched tight. "The house never _doesn't_ smell like dope, and you—you—"

"Better quit while you're ahead, boy." His foster dad was in Aoba's space, polluting it with the smell of smoke and beer, but Aoba straightened his back, steeled his jaw, and stared him straight in the eye.

"You're a goddamn drunk." Aoba's heart raced. "A drunk who barely fuckin' works, who beats on his wife, who acts like his shit don't fuckin' stink when it reeks so bad I'm surprised you ain't been locked up yet."

He shook, chest tightening, throat closing. How long had he wanted to say this?

And that's when his world spun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading and sorry if i'm rusty!! and yeah this chapter was really filler sorry;;
> 
> also thanks so much to the people who have left comments and followed me even through all of my periods of inactivity   
> You guys are seriously amazing ahh <3<3<3  
> I'm working lots and I just recently moved across the country (i live with my girlfriend now yay!!) so my free time is p scarce but i really do wanna become more active  
> i have hella plans for this story guys  
> hella plans
> 
> until next time!!


	4. What A Strange Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!  
>  UPDATES

The next thing Aoba knew, he was on the ground.

His vision filled with bright spots and distantly, he heard yelling; but it could have been in another room, it was so far-off, so muffled.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," his foster father scoffed, kneeling down to Aoba's level, bottle hanging loosely from his fingertips. Sleepily, slowly, Aoba blinked up, one hand rising to cradle his cheek. On contact, he winced.

Oh.

He'd been hit.

With a withering glower, Aoba gritted his teeth.

"Bastard."

He was struck again.

His teeth clenched tighter together and he screwed his eyes shut, tears pooling at the corners as he kept his head held to the side; every word his foster father spoke felt like another hit, even if no more followed.

Insult after insult, blow after blow. The more that man spoke, the harder Aoba shook. But all things must come to an end.

Another night at home tangled to a close, leaving Aoba just as drained, just as tired as he'd expected. His body felt heavy; his jaw throbbed; his eyes stung with the tears he'd held back. He felt nothing short of pathetic.

He didn't go to sleep, but he didn't wander, either. He stayed in bed all night, head buried under his covers until the air grew too hot and stale to comfortably breathe; but even then, he didn't move. Only when the sun rose, cutting through his blinds and thin covers like a knife did he finally peel his blanket back and sit up, wiping his sticky cheeks with the backs of his palms.

With a ragged sigh—his throat felt like it had been carved out with a razor—he looked to his nightstand, blinking (his eyes hurt, they hurt, they _hurt)_ as his heavy mind fought to register the burning red numbers.

He had to be to work in an hour.

He swore weakly, voice barely there; he buried his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes, trying to get them to hurt just a little bit less.

He really was pathetic, wasn't he?

Getting ready was mechanic; walking to work was robotic; helping Mink open the shop was boring as could be. But Mink wasn't dense, and Aoba didn't expect as much.

What a shame he didn't have the energy to lie.

"What happened?" Mink asked halfway through the morning, after his questioning looks garnered no answers (but his tone was more demanding than inquiring). "I know something did; that, or you're on drugs."

Mink squinted at Aoba, waiting for a response. Aoba tried to laugh.

"I wish," he sighed, voice scratchy; he winced at the sound of it, and maybe he'd imagined it, but he could have sworn Mink did, too. "Hard night, y'know? Everyone's had those." He felt out of it, like life were a dream, like his words weren't even his. "I mean, my foster parents ain't bad people, yeah? Maybe it's me—maybe I'm just a handful, y'know?"

He set a box of flyers down on the front counter, eyes glazed-over.

"Maybe I'm the fuckin' problem."

Mink scoffed; Aoba stayed still.

"I don't know what happened, but I can assure you, pitying yourself won't fix anything."

Aoba would have rolled his eyes if he had the energy.

"I know that," he muttered, staring into the box. "But, I mean, I've had _seven_ foster families since I was six—don't that mean there's somethin' wrong with me? Some of the people were real nice, too—but, like, I acted out? So they gave up on me…"

His cheeks felt wet, but his mind felt blurry. Everything was...strange.

"Aoba."

Aoba jumped, eyes wide as he looked up to Mink. He blinked once, twice.

"Don't call me that."

Mink's eyebrows scrunched together.

"...And why the hell shouldn't I?"

"'Cause I don't like that name." Aoba grabbed at a stack of flyers in the box, some crinkling in his haste. "It's fuckin' lame. Call me Sly."

Mink snorted.

"Then why did you introduce yourself using a name that you hate?"

Aoba paused.

"...'Cause I'm a fuckin' idiot, I don't know!" he yelled without warning, tossing the stack on the counter so hard papers scattered across it. "Just call me Sly, goddamnit! Is it really so fuckin' hard?!"

Mink fell silent after Aoba's outburst, then reached into the box as well, arm stretching across Aoba's chest; Aoba's blurry eyes fell to it, tracing Mink's sleeve of tattoos. There were so many…

"Fine, then," Mink finally said, placing his own stack down far more gently than Aoba had. "I'll call you Sly—but on one condition."

Aoba squinted.

_"What?"_

"You let me meet your parents."

Aoba went quiet.

"...Uh…" He squinted until his eyes burned worse, until he could hardly see. "...The fuck?"

Mink was unbothered.

"Condition accepted?"

Aoba opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it once more.

"...Sure?"

Mink's lip twitched.

"Then we've reached an agreement," he said, reaching into the box once again.

Aoba's head hurt.

* * *

Aoba was essentially useless that morning, no matter how hard he tried to break out of his fog. He stumbled over his own feet, over his own words—and even after eating half of a vending-machine Pop-tart Mink forced on him (it tasted like moldy cardboard, gross, gross), Aoba didn't feel any different.

Once other employees trickled in, he was banished to the breakroom to try and 'rest'—but it's not like he could, not fully. Something seemed to keep him awake, be it the throbbing of his head, the sore stiffness of his body, or the words on repeat in his mind.

"Aoba."

Aoba cracked his eyes open with a wince; his head hurt so badly it spun. He could hardly tell if he were awake.

"...Yeah?"

"I'm taking you home."

It could have been Aoba's imagination, but the word 'home' sound poisonous, almost like, as Mink said it, he'd been forced to swallow something vile.

Aoba cracked a smile.

"...Sorry."

He didn't quite remember the ride to his house, but he knew it was in a car this time (and he didn't know Mink owned a car, but maybe it wasn't even Mink's—did that make sense?). Once the run-down house came into view, he pushed the door open and stepped out, then stumbled, then fell against something hard, something sturdy and warm: Mink's chest, he soon discovered.

"Sorry," he said again, squeezing his eyes shut. "M'—I don't know what's...wrong with me…"

"It's fine," Mink said; Aoba flinched. He sounded so cutting, so curt. "Let's get you inside."

Weakly, Aoba nodded.

"...M'kay."

He nearly tripped up the front steps, but Mink was there to catch him again; in Aoba's mind, it was funny how often he'd been rescued by this man as of late.

But when Mink knocked on the door, the floor of Aoba's stomach dropped out.

"N-No," he slurred, trying to push himself away, detangle himself from Mink's strong hold; but Mink held him tight against his chest. "M'foster dad's prolly home—"

"Good."

Aoba shrunk back. His mouth was dry.

And as his foster father answered the door, he was still as a statue.

The man had been drinking, that much was clear—if the stench hadn't given it away, the stains on his shirt and and the clumsiness of his gait likely would have. Mink wrinkled his nose.

"Are you this boy's guardian?"

The drunken man blinked, eyes rising to meet Mink's once he was done mean-mugging Aoba—and they had quite a ways to go.

"...Who the hell are you?"

"Your son's employer," Mink said, not missing a beat. "And it reflects poorly on my company to have bruised minors selling my products."

The man's eyes widened, then darted to Aoba, like he expected something to come out of his mouth: words of dismissal, perhaps. Excuses. Reasons. Explanations. Something.

But nothing came.

"...Goddamnit," the man breathed out, rubbing his eye with the heel of his palm. "Look—sometimes stuff happens, and you gotta discipline your kids—ain't my fault he's a handful."

Aoba's eyes dropped to the ground.

A handful—a _problem._

"But it _is_ your fault for lacking self-control," Mink said, eyes narrowing the longer he stared. The man visibly shrunk.

"W-Well—he ain't a kid!" the man sputtered; he took a step back, voluntarily or not. "In three weeks, he's out on his own, anyway—and he's gonna have a sore time of it with the hole he's dug himself."

Mink's face was blank as a stone.

"Then I'm sure it won't bother you to expedite this process."

The man blinked.

"...What?"

In an instant, Mink had bent nearly halfway down, coming face-to-face with the trembling man.

"He'll be packing his things tonight." Mink held the man's gaze; his own didn't waver an inch. "That isn't a problem, is it?"

The man shook his head.

"...That ain't a problem."

Mink's lip lifted; if Aoba weren't staring at him like he were the craziest man in the world, he likely would have missed it.

"I'm glad we've reached an agreement."

They discussed arrangements; they discussed the signing of legal documents (or lack thereof, seeing as Aoba was nearly eighteen). Aoba tried to listen, but between the ringing in his ears and the shock of it all, he was dumb and deaf to the world.

He had to have been dreaming.

That was it, he convinced himself as he sat in the passenger side seat of Mink's car, staring out the window with stinging, bloodshot eyes. Everything was strange enough that day between the lack of sleep and his horrible headache; it was an illusion, a fever dream.

Even as he stepped into Mink's living room, with everything he owned in that strange man's hands, he told himself, over and over again:

"This has gotta be a dream."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drama intensifies


	5. Maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT DO I DO WITH ALL THIS MUSE

Cold.

Aoba was cold.

"It isn't," Mink said, stepping deeper into the house; dumbly, Aoba followed behind, feet dragging on the plush, carpeted floor. "You were in an unhealthy environment, and I have a spare room—it's a logical arrangement."

Aoba shook his head.

"You barely know me, and I ain't got a thing to offer you..." he said, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. His eyes went wide, darting up to Mink. "... _I_ barely know _you."_

His stomach turned.

It was clear this man was well-loved among those he associated with, dare Aoba say even _trusted,_ but with everything he'd done for Aoba...

What did he want in return?

"This will be your room," Mink said, opening the door at the very end of the hall; it creaked ominously, making the hair on the back of Aoba's neck stand on end. He rubbed at his arms. "It's dusty—I don't go inside often."

Aoba gave a weak nod.

"...Okay."

Mink eyed him for a long moment, standing in the doorway, then gave a dismissive sigh and a small, short shake of his head.

"I have to go back to the shop," he said, hand sliding off of the doorknob. "You know the number by now, I'm sure—if not, it's in the phone book on the kitchen counter."

Aoba blinked.

He still used a phone book?

"If you need anything, just call using the landline."

Aoba squinted.

This guy was _weird._

"...Okay," Aoba breathed after a moment, shaking his head. To each their own, he supposed. "I won't burn the house down while you're gone, I guess."

Mink snorted.

"I'd hope as much."

And then, after setting Aoba's belongings down, he turned and left.

As Aoba stepped into the room, flopped on the bed, and listened for the sound of Mink's departure, he was suddenly gripped with another harsh chill, one that rocked him to his core and left him grabbing fistfuls of the quilted blanket (and sending clouds of dust spiraling through the stale air) to try and fend it off.

As he cocooned himself, he sighed, eyes heavy, head pounding, body aching from head-to-toe. Nothing felt real.

And as his eyes finally slipped closed, he fell asleep.

His dreams were stranger than his waking life. They were full of bright colors and harsh sounds and the feeling of someone gripping your neck, hands winding, fingers twisting until you're gasping for breath—but none ever comes.

He was glad to wake up.

When his eyes cracked open, it was dark; he tried to swallow, only to wince and smack his chapped lips, mouth dry as the desert.

Water. He needed water.

He tried to move, but cried out (a whisper, really) as his body protested, and flopped back down, gritting his teeth in indignant defeat.

Food. He needed _food._

He sighed, turning his face against the down pillow, taking a deep, deep breath while he waited for his head to stop spinning, for his limbs to loosen up. His eyebrows drew together.

The room and furnishings smelled old, there was no doubt about it, but they also smelled familiar. Homey. Oddly comforting.

He sank deeper into the bed.

He liked this room, he decided, as he took it all in. He could hear the muted sound of wind chimes, tinkling in the gentle evening breeze; distantly, crickets chirped: a pleasant soundtrack for sleep.

He liked this room. He liked it a lot.

With a wide, wide yawn, he scrunched the soft quilt between his fingers, petting it, feeling the way the fabric broke into new patterns, feeling the small, tight stitches against the pads of his fingertips. He wondered how old it was.

He lay like this for quite a while, listening, feeling, absorbing his new surroundings before the sound of a car pulling into the driveway piqued his interest, dragging him back into reality, back from the border of not-quite-sleep. He took a deep breath.

A car door opened and slammed.

Heavy steps sounded outside of his window.

Eventually, the front door creaked open.

Aoba held his breath as the front door closed, but he didn't know why; maybe he didn't want to be found. Maybe he didn't want his peace to be shattered as it always, always was.

His open doorway was eventually filled; he forced his eyes closed, but he knew it was too late.

Mink sighed.

"Are you awake?"

Aoba stayed still for a long, long moment. The crickets grew louder.

"...Yeah."

He popped one eye open. He felt vulnerable, on edge; he pulled the blanket tighter to his chest.

But Mink was almost as comforting as this room.

"Did you rest well?"

"...Yeah."

"Are you hungry?"

Aoba bit his lip, sinking against the bed.

"...Yeah."

Mink raised his arm, resting it against the doorway. It was dark, yes, but even then, Aoba could tell he was coated in dried sweat.

"I'll make something for dinner." Mink paused a moment, eyes glimmering as they caught a flash of light. "Do you have any allergies?"

Aoba gave a soft laugh.

"No," he said, cheeks warming; he pressed one against the pillow, the smallest smile on his lips. "I'll eat anything."

It was dark, yes, but even then, Aoba could have sworn Mink smiled too.

* * *

Mink made dinner.

It was a simple meal: pasta with red sauce. At one point, Mink offered a small apology for its simplicity; but Aoba quieted him with a series of thank-you's and promises that it was fine. "A meal's a meal," he said. Mink provided a lot of those.

"This is good," Aoba said, eyes wide as he swallowed his second bite—the one he actually bothered to chew. _"Real_ good."

"The sauce is homemade," Mink said, twirling his own bite of pasta around his fork so many times Aoba lost count.

Aoba's eyes widened even more.

_"Really?"_

"No."

Aoba blinked.

"...Oh."

Forks scraped against bowls; noodles were loudly slurped. Aoba felt awkward.

But just as the meal was coming to a close, Mink said:

"I was joking."

Aoba jerked, then blinked up, eyebrows furrowing together.

"What?"

"It was a joke," Mink sighed, standing, bowl in hand. "The sauce." He huffed, then scooped Aoba's bowl up as well as he brushed past him on his way to the sink. "Never mind."

Aoba made a small noise as his mouth opened wide, then almost pouted.

But as Mink's words sank in—a joke, _a joke—_ he snorted— _loudly._

"Your sense of humor _sucks,"_ he laughed, standing and stepping to where Mink stood at the sink. "If someone can't tell your joke's a joke, then it ain't a joke, sad to say."

Mink was quiet, soapy sponge in hand.

Then, he sighed.

"Duly noted."

Aoba smirked.

"What?" His tone was light, teasing. "You're takin' advice from me now?"

Mink's lip lifted just a little higher than usual.

"Maybe I am."

* * *

The rest of the night was calm, like this house seemed to be. Mink himself was a scary sight indeed, but his home was quiet, peaceful—almost rustic, in its own way. It seemed like a piece of the past planted in the present, and even if that weren't quite the case, Aoba found he liked this place.

But he was scared.

What if he woke up in the morning and everything was back to the way it was? What if he woke up and he were in his old bed—but it was hardly a bed. It was a hard hand-me-down mattress on a dirty floor with a sheet that didn't quite fit and a blanket that was too thin.

Those thoughts kept him awake.

He tried listening to the crickets; he tried focusing on the feeling of this place, on the peace this room exuded. His thoughts were louder than a freight train.

But as the sun peaked through his curtains at dawn, the sound of heavy footsteps padding down the hallway reached his ears, and the smell of strong, brewing coffee wafted in through the crack of his door, Aoba finally fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok but i really love writing this story 
> 
> thank u for reading!! comments and kudos are amazing and i check obsessively let's be real
> 
> until next time!


	6. Hurricane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> days off are wonderful things

Aoba was content.  
  
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he hadn’t woken up with a knot in his throat or a thousand-pound weight pressing against his chest, keeping him locked under the covers until he finally mustered the strength to kick them away. Instead, he woke up to the lingering smell of coffee (which had lulled him to sleep) and the sound of Mink coughing—something he only did when he thought no one was around, Aoba would soon come to learn.  
  
But despite everything else, despite the small comfort he now had, one word still ricocheted through Aoba’s mind as he lay in bed that day, recovering from yesterday’s events alone while Mink was at work:  
  
Why.  
  
Why was Mink so kind?   
  
Why did he care so much?  
  
Why did he care about _him?_  
  
Why, why, why.  
  
It drove Aoba to the brink of insanity; he knew nobody did anything for free. They always wanted payment, and there were plenty of methods that sprang to Aoba’s mind when he thought of what Mink could possibly want in return for his kindness. Some made his skin crawl; some didn’t make sense. But he knew there had to be something.  
  
“Hey…” Aoba stabbed at his mountain of mashed potatoes at dinner that night, eyes following the little paths his fork made as he dragged it across the top. “Can I ask you a question?”  
  
Mink peered up from his own plate, his glasses—he wore _glasses—_ sliding down the bridge of his nose just a fraction as he tilted his head Aoba’s way.  
  
“If you feel so inclined.”  
  
Aoba took a deep breath.  
  
“...Why?”  
  
The word felt like a burst of tropical wind, like a hurricane leaving his lips. He was scared of the damage it could do—of the damage it _would_ do.  
  
“Why’d you take me in?” he said, voice thin, frail, _scared._ “I-I mean—the setup I had wasn’t _terrible._ Yeah, my foster dad got rough sometimes but that—that—“ He clamped his lips shut, then opened them again, voice even quieter than before. “...I’ve had worse.”  
  
Mink was silent.  
  
Aoba could hear his world being ripped to shreds by the storm he’d unleashed—he hated himself more than ever before.  
  
After a small eternity, Mink spoke.  
  
“...Because I saw a child in an unfortunate situation whom I could offer help to,” he said; he sounded like he were discussing the most mundane topic imaginable. Aoba’s shoulders slumped.  
  
“...But…” He scrunched his eyebrows together, and soon took to stabbing at his mashed potatoes and spreading them around his plate, mutilating quite a few peas in the process. “That don’t—that don’t make any _sense._ I’ve been here for a whole day now, not doin’ shit, and, and you’ve never brought up rent or nothin’—“  
  
“You’re in no position to pay rent, and this house is my own.” Mink reached for his steaming cup of tea, lifting it slowly to his lips. “If you’d like to help with utilities next month, that’s your prerogative, but I’m not hurting for money.”  
  
Aoba gritted his teeth; his fork scraped against his plate with a jarring squeal.  
  
“That _doesn’t make sense!”_ His fist slammed against the table, punctuating his every word. “People don’t just _help—_ not without wantin’ somethin’ else, somethin’ _big.”_  
  
His heart pounded; his eyes were wide, wide like a cornered animal's.  
  
“I know you want somethin’ from me.”  
  
Mink set his mug down with a dull thump, then sighed, rubbing the spot between his eyes, right above the bridge of his glasses. He did that a lot, Aoba noticed.  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Mink said, shaking his head. “I’ve explained my motives, and I don’t expect anything in return. Now please—“ He glared Aoba’s way, eyes darting down to the mess he’d made of his plate. “Stop playing with your food.”  
  
Aoba dropped his fork.  
  
“I ain’t hungry no more.”  
  
In a quick flash, Aoba pushed his chair away from the table and stormed down the hall to his room, hopping on his rumpled bed with a loud, frustrated huff. He buried his face against his pillow, half-tempted to scream until he ran out of breath (or confusion—whichever came first).  
  
Mink didn’t make _sense._  
  
The way he acted was completely different from the way he actually was; his real, unfiltered personality was a complete enigma, hidden behind layers of stoicism and harsh looks. It hurt Aoba’s brain just to think about it.  
  
But Aoba knew he would figure him out eventually, no matter what it took.   
  
Nothing came for free.

* * *

Aoba was struggling.  
  
No matter the task, it seemed too difficult; remembering simple things was like rocket science. But Aoba continued to make excuses, continued to say he was fine, that nothing was wrong, that he’d just sleep it off.  
  
“Sit down,” Mink said on the second day with a tone of absolute finality. Aoba froze, shriveling where he stood, feet like blocks of ice against the living room floor. He knew there was no getting out of this one.  
  
“I’m fine,” he huffed, slowly sinking into the plush couch behind them. It practically swallowed him; he wished it would. “It—it’s _nothing—“_  
  
Mink gripped his face—not harshly, but not gently, either.  
  
“Stop talking for a moment,” he said, turning Aoba’s face to the side, inspecting it closely. Aoba’s heart picked up speed. Mink was _close._  
  
“...What are you doing?”  
  
“Looking for damage.” His fingers pressed against Aoba’s cheekbone, his temple, his jaw. Aoba’s eyes widened.  
  
“Damage?”  
  
“From the altercation with your foster father.”  
  
Aoba’s mouth went dry.  
  
“...Ah.”  
  
Slowly, Aoba let himself relax, feeling the pressure of Mink’s thumb and index finger against his skin. It was jarring to have someone this close, _touching_ him, but Mink wouldn’t hurt him, right?   
  
Aoba squirmed.  
  
“...Just make it quick, alrigh—“  
  
Suddenly, Aoba’s breath caught, pulse skyrocketing as Mink’s calloused thumb brushed against his open lips—but it was an accident, a small slip, he knew.  
  
Then why did it feel so strange?  
  
The pads of Mink’s fingers, rough from work, pressing against his skin again and again…  
  
Aoba’s squirming stopped.  
  
“...No fractures,” Mink said after a moment, fingers falling from Aoba’s face and into his own lap. “But you likely have a concussion, based on your behavior.”  
  
Aoba blinked, like waking from a dream.  
  
“...Oh—yeah.” He gave a weak laugh. “Should’a known—I’ve had plenty of those.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off whatever this was. “Gettin' my ass kicked and stuff.”  
  
“...Not surprising,” Mink sighed, standing slowly. “I’m done pestering you for now—but you’re staying in bed for the next couple of days.” He peered back at Aoba, then shut his eyes with a shake of his head. “Treatment’s already overdue.”  
  
Aoba swallowed hard. Who was he to argue?  
  
“...You’re the doctor, I guess.”  
  
Mink cracked a thin smile, eyes slowly opening once more. Aoba held his gaze, cheeks burning.   
  
“That means you’ll listen to my orders?”  
  
Aoba’s heart slammed against his rib cage.  
  
“...Yeah.” His voice was a meek squeak; he cleared his throat. “Wh-Whatever you say. You’re the boss, yeah?”  
  
Mink raised an eyebrow, but soon looked away with a muffled snort. Aoba was relieved for the break; Mink’s gaze was hypnotic.   
  
“I suppose.”  
  
Mink left after that, headed deeper into the house without another word; but Aoba couldn’t tear his eyes away from him as he moved, not until he turned the corner, leaving Aoba blinking behind him with a look as blank as his mind felt.   
  
What was that?  
  
 _What was that?_  
  
Aoba was making it out to be more than it was; that was obvious, obvious, obvious—but…  
  
Aoba’s eyes went wide.  
  
Could it be?  
  
Something in his mind clicked, leaving him with an odd, empty sense of peace.  
  
...Maybe he’d found his why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!!! comments and kudos make my day ahhhh <3


	7. Weird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hOW DOES TIME GO BY SO FAST  
> SORRY  
> I'M TRYING TO UPDATE CONSISTENTLY I'M JUST A BIG BALL OF LAME SOMETIMES RIP
> 
> GIVES UPDATE

Aoba thought about it endlessly: his newly-discovered  _why._ It brought him the strangest sense of peace, knowing the reason behind all of Mink’s actions; and really, Aoba didn’t think any less of him now that he knew. How could he, given all he’d done for Aoba? Mink was his savior, his knight in shining armor.   
  
But Aoba wondered why he hadn’t made a move.  
  
Aoba kept a tally of how many opportunities there were—there were plenty of small, quick touches in passing; plenty of moments when they were alone, late at night, not-quite-touching as they sat on the couch; plenty of times when Mink could have pounced on him, leaving him completely defenseless as he took whatever he wanted.   
  
But he hadn’t.  
  
“So…” Aoba peered over at Mink; he was squinting down the illustrations in a magazine about motorcycles, one arm braced against the shop’s front counter. Aoba knew he was looking at parts. “We’re closin’ up early tonight, yeah?”  
  
Mink gave half of a nod.   
  
“It _is_ Sunday,” he muttered, attention still held by the magazine; he flipped the page. “You’ve worked here for over a week; I’d assume you’d have learned our hours.”  
  
Aoba’s eyebrow twitched.  
  
“Well _excuse_ me,” he muttered, turning to the side, pushing a clump of hair behind his ear as he wandered deeper into the shop. It wasn’t large by any means, but it wasn’t cramped, either. Aoba thought it was the perfect size. “I’ll be takin’ inventory or...whatever. Yell if you need me.”  
  
Mink grunted; Aoba rolled his eyes. Mink wasn’t paying any attention to the outside world.   
  
That wasn’t such a bad thing.  
  
“Hey, Mizuki,” Aoba said as he wandered into the break room, slapping on a grin and giving a little wave. Mizuki looked up from his own magazine: one about piercings and tattoos, judging by the cover. “Boss said you could head out early—we’re dead as hell, anyway.”  
  
Mizuki blinked.  
  
“Oh?” He gave a little grin. “Thanks, I guess.”   
  
Aoba grinned.  
  
“Don’t mention it. Oh, but—” Aoba gave a little sigh. “Boss is all absorbed in his work, so you probably shouldn’t—“  
  
“I’ve got you,” Mizuki laughed, shutting his magazine. “Don’t poke the beast.”  
  
Aoba grinned.  
  
“You got it.”  
  
Now, they’d be alone: no dinner together, all three of them; no staying after to shoot the breeze; no going out for drinks while Aoba waited at home, biting his fingernails until Mink finally returned.  
  
Now, it was only _them._   
  
“Have a good night, Mizuki.”  
  
Aoba had a plan.

* * *

After Mizuki left out the back door, Aoba spent the last twenty minutes before closing tidying things up, putting parts where they belonged, and making note of what needed to be reordered (even though he knew Mink kept tabs on that pretty well himself). At least it was something to _do;_  Aoba was antsier than he could ever remember.

By the time Mink finally wandered to the back, Aoba was just putting the broom away.  
  
“Where’s Mizuki?” Mink asked, voice gruff; it sent a shiver, however small, straight down Aoba’s spine.  
  
“Oh—uh...” Aoba gave a shaky little grin. “He left. Said he thought he’d caught a stomach bug or somethin’.” Aoba heart pounded. Would Mink buy it?  
  
Mink raised an eyebrow.  
  
“He left without consulting me?”  
  
Aoba’s grin nearly faltered.  
  
“S’not like we needed him. And—and he seemed pretty out of it, holdin’ his stomach ‘n stuff...”  
  
After a moment of intense staring, Mink’s eyes slipped closed and he sighed, combing his fingers through his tousled hair. Aoba watched his every move.  
  
“I suppose.”  
  
He’d bought it.  
  
Mink’s eyes opened again, then, and he stared straight at Aoba; Aoba stared right back, swallowing hard.   
  
“...You seem off today.”  
  
Aoba blinked.  
  
“...Off?”  
  
But Mink offered nothing else before he turned, waving his hand. Aoba huffed.  
  
Cryptic, as always.   
  
“Come to the front; it’s time to go home.”  
  
Aoba’s heart thudded and he stuttered out a quiet, “o-okay,” closing the broom closet with a deep, deep breath. He could do this; he knew he could.  
  
And they were all alone.

* * *

As they sat in the car, heading back to Mink’s home, Aoba couldn’t sit still.  
  
If Mink wouldn’t make a move, _he_ would.  
  
Aoba peaked at Mink, gnawing on his lip as he wrung his clammy hands, squeezed his thighs, tapped his fingers to no particular rhythm. It’s not like Mink was unattractive by _any_ means—his chiseled jaw, strong nose, piercing eyes... In fact, if he were just a few years younger, he’d have been _exactly_ Aoba’s type. And that body of his...  
  
Mink sighed.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
Aoba could have jumped through the roof.  
  
“Wh-What?”  
  
Mink scowled.   
  
_“Stop.”_ He made a sharp, jerky turn into the neighborhood—something Aoba didn’t know Mink could do, as he blinked in surprise. “I don’t like the look on your face.”  
  
Aoba scoffed, cheeks burning bright red, butterflies fluttering in the pit of his stomach. Mink was catching on.  
  
“Well _so—rry.”_  
  
But it’s not like Aoba was.  
  
Aoba followed Mink inside once the car was parked, and as the front door was shut, the curtains were drawn, and Mink’s hand reached for dial on the lamp—  
  
Aoba made his move.  
  
Quickly, he stepped forward, hands pressing hard against Mink’s chest, sliding to his hips; he hooked his fingers through the belt-loops of his pants, tugging until their bodies were flush, until he knew his intentions were crystal clear.  
  
Mink froze.  
  
“You said I’ve been actin’ weird, yeah? That I seem _off?”_ Aoba breathed against Mink’s chest, one hand sliding beneath Mink’s thin shirt; his skin was _hot._ “Any clue why?”  
  
Mink grabbed Aoba’s wrists.  
  
“I was afraid of this,” he muttered after a quick moment, a hint of something sad, something resigned in his gravelly voice. “You’re terrible at hiding your intentions.”  
  
“Well _maybe_ I don’t want them hidden,” Aoba said, jerking his wrists away from Mink’s hold with a hard glower. “And I know it’s what _you_ want, big guy—“ He grabbed a handful of Mink’s shirt, wrapping it around his fist with a little lick of his lips. “Stop actin’ like it’s not.”  
  
Mink’s eyes were slits.  
  
“Let go.”  
  
Aoba scowled.  
  
Why was Mink so _weird?_  
  
“No way,” he breathed, standing on his tip-toes and giving Mink’s neck a hard lick; he shivered, moaning in the back of his throat. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do—you’ve been so good to me, y’know? Lemme show you how good I can be to you...”  
  
As Aoba dropped back to the balls of his feet, grinning lopsidedly, Mink stayed still as ever. Aoba rolled his eyes.  
  
 _“What?_ I’m _offerin’_ here. And—“ His eyes flashed. “I’m almost eighteen, yeah?” He slid the hand not wrapped around Mink’s shirt against Mink’s stomach, almost surprised by how hard, by how _toned_ it felt. He winked. “I’m _real_ good with my mouth, big guy…”  
  
“Enough.” Mink’s voice was like a door slammed shut; he gripped Aoba’s shoulder and pushed him back, making Aoba blink in surprise as he stumbled. “I’m not that kind of person,” Mink said, using his arm to shove Aoba away again when he tried to press forward. It was a losing battle; Mink was _strong._  
  
Aoba gritted his teeth.  
  
“Maybe you don’t wanna _think_ you are,” he growled, ducking below Mink’s arm and winding his arms around Mink’s waist, tight as they’d go; he locked his fingers together, intent on standing his ground, chin digging into Mink’s chest. “But I know there ain’t no other reason—you’re no fuckin’ prince, no fuckin’ white knight—”  
,  
Aoba bit at Mink’s shirt with a growl, glaring up at him.  
  
“I want you to  _fuck_  me.”  
  
Mink’s eyes went  _wide._  
  
With a low chuckle, Aoba turned his head and licked Mink’s arm softly, slowly—not his body part of choice, but it was the only one within reach.  
  
“I wanna suck you ‘till you’re tuggin’ my hair, ‘till you’re rockin’ your hips...” he breathed before suddenly biting into Mink’s arm with a jerk of his head; Mink hissed, trying to shove Aoba off so hard it _hurt,_ but Aoba stayed glued to him with all his might as slowly, he popped his mouth off, panting just barely against Mink’s broken skin. “I wanna make you _crazy_ for me.”  
  
Aoba glanced up; Mink’s expression was hard to read, but his eyes, deep gold, were fierce, _angry._  
  
Aoba wanted to know how that anger felt—and from this position, all he could feel were Mink’s nails digging into his hips as he tried to pry him off.   
  
But he could have tried  _so_  much harder.  
  
“C’mon, big guy…” Aoba licked at the blood pooling at the edges of the bite, a little moan in the back of his throat. His eyes flashed as he stared up at Mink, and slowly, he smiled, head falling to the side. "Wanna have some fun?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drama llama rolls in again 
> 
> thank you for reading!!


	8. Wander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm alive! and working nonstop!! four doubles a week kms 
> 
> my muse is back for a second :)) we'll see how long it lasts
> 
> ps my writing style seems different to me?? but granted seven months between updates is a long time jfc
> 
> enjoy!

A stalemate: fiery yellow against impenetrable gold. Aoba knew what he wanted; Mink just needed to cave.   
  
A blink; a grimace; a wrinkle of his brow.   
  
With a yelp Aoba was hoisted off of the ground and thrown over Mink’s shoulder. He blinked, in a daze (and feeling much like a sack of potatoes), before realization sank in, and he smiled.   
  
He’d won.   
  
“I knew you’d give in.”   
  
They walked past Mink’s bedroom.   
  
“Uhm—my room, then?”   
  
They walked past Aoba’s bedroom.   
  
“...The shower?”   
  
The bathroom was their final destination, after all.   
  
But Aoba was gracelessly tossed into the tub while Mink only stood, looming above with a shadow cast over his face. Aoba scowled up at Mink, mouth forming words of angry confusion until a blast of ice chased them into the very depths of his throat.   
  
He was stunned.   
  
“Hey—h-hey—y-you—“ He scrambled, hands clawing at the shower curtain, trying to find a good hold; Mink’s palm slammed against Aoba’s chest, leaving Aoba shivering against the tub as torrents of water pelted the top of his blue head. He looked like a drowned rat in a matter of seconds.   
  
There went his libido.   
  
He was hurt, in all honesty; he’d gotten his hopes up and Mink did nothing but lure him in only to shove him down. Aoba was just trying to give Mink what he /knew/ he wanted.   
  
His lip wobbled.   
  
Mink sighed as he reached into the shower, turning the temperature to something much warmer, but Aoba hardly noticed the change. His head hung, shivering fingers laced together in his lap, and eyes pricking with water of their own.   
  
He was defeated.   
  
“Hey,” Mink said, voice not soft in the least. “I told you, I’m not like that.”   
  
Aoba gave a sniffle and a nod.   
  
“...Yeah.”   
  
Mink sighed, fingers pressed between his eyes. For a long moment, flowing water was the only sound other than Aoba’s sniffling. Mink’s eyebrow twitched.   
  
“Don’t.”   
  
Aoba wiped at his eyes (counterproductive, given how damp he was).   
  
“Don’t what?” His voice sounded like a dry croak.   
  
“Cry.”   
  
Aoba’s lip trembled worse, but he fought to swallow down the lump in his throat.   
  
“...Sorry.”   
  
Mink fell silent, then gave his head a slow shake, like he’d resigned himself to something—something Aoba didn't think he liked.

  
Aoba didn’t look up when Mink’s footsteps began, nor did he when they faded near the end of the hall. He couldn’t focus on anything but the basin of the tub; he hardly felt his clothes sticking to his skin, clinging with all of their might.   
  
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a ‘why’ after all. 

* * *

Once Aoba crashed back down to Earth, stuck in damp clothes and goosebump-peppered skin, he stripped and filled the tub properly, relieved to find the water still ran hot.   
  
He was an idiot.   
  
“Damn it,” he muttered, rubbing his sunken face. He knew he looked like shit, all red eyes and wet cheeks; he felt like it, too. “...Fuck.”

He’d ruined it, hadn’t he? 

He’d tried to hop into bed with someone twice his age because he couldn’t, for a second, accept that maybe, just maybe, Mink didn’t want a damn thing from him. Even now, he couldn’t quite accept that. It was too foreign. He couldn't soak it in.

_Nothing comes for free._

Aoba snuck to his room after the water finally turned too cold for him to stand, doing his damndest to step quietly on the way. By the time he made it to his borrowed room, he realized he’d been holding his breath.

He crawled into bed with a sniffle and the look of a boy defeated, slipping under the covers and curling into a ball. He didn’t want to move; he didn’t want to blink; he didn’t want to _think._ But he couldn’t fall asleep, not with the loud, humiliating thoughts running through his head. It was like watching a movie; he could imagine how stupid he looked, clinging to Mink like a horny drunk, saying things that made his stomach burn just to think about. He buried his face against his pillow to try and block the images out.

At some point Mink rapped his knuckles against the door, but Aoba didn’t move an inch. He kept his eyes firmly closed, willing Mink to leave. And he did, after heaving a sigh so heavy Aoba could almost feel it himself. He imagined Mink shaking his head.  
  
_What a waste of time._

Aoba heard the sound of the television in the living room, sometime long after his hair was dry (and sticking out in all directions, he could feel it). He wondered what Mink was watching. He wondered if it distracted him.

He didn't know when, but somehow, with muffled voices thrumming in his ears, he fell fast asleep.

* * *

When Aoba woke up, he lost his breath. There wasn't a moment, even a small window of time before he remembered everything in vivid, bloody detail. He groaned, burying his face against the bed.

Maybe Mink had forgotten (Aoba knew he hadn't). Maybe he didn't think it was that big of a deal.

He could hope.

Aoba slowly sat up, rubbing his neck as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. One foot met the ground, then the other, and soon, he was on his way to the restroom.

He did his business quickly (the bedroom seemed safer by far; the bathroom was shared territory), and scurried back into the hall—and almost ran straight into Mink’s chest.

Mink grunted, steadying the hand holding his mug of coffee before eying Aoba, one eyebrow cocked. Aoba looked at the wall.

“Sorry.”

“It's fine.”

Aoba folded his arms across his chest and maneuvered around Mink. Only a few more steps, and he'd be safe.

“Aoba.”

Aoba froze. Mink took a heavy breath. One second, two, three.

“Perhaps we should discuss other living arrangements.”

Aoba's eyes pricked; his hand landed on the doorknob.

“...Yeah.”

What had he expected?

He barricaded himself in his room after this, not budging even when he heard Mink leave for the day. He was  _sad,_ in the purest sense of the word. He could feel himself going numb.

He was being melodramatic—he knew it.

Aoba spent the rest of the morning lazing around the house once he finally mustered the courage to leave his room. He tried to watch television; nothing held his interest. He tried finding something to eat; nothing sounded the least bit appetizing. He couldn't shake this mood.

It didn't feel like he was the one packing his backpack with the things that meant most to him; it didn't feel like his own thoughts bouncing around in his head. He knew he wasn't himself.

That didn't stop him from wandering.

He walked Mink’s neighborhood at first, but that grew boring in a matter of moments. His restless mind led him to the main road, to a shopping center, to a side street, to another neighborhood. He didn't stop until he ran out of breath and settled in a park with a pond, collapsing on metal a bench, grimacing something fierce. He was hungry; the bread crusts the ducks nibbled on was almost tempting.

He wandered some more.

The sun began to set without him noticing, and by the time he did, he hadn't the slightest clue where he'd ended up. He looked around for landmarks, for something more than just vaguely familiar. It didn't take him long to find it.

He scoffed. How ironic.

He wandered into the diner with his hood popped up and eyes dim. A woman—who looked quite familiar, indeed—greeted him, and he sat tucked away in a corner, sighing as his legs ached. He wondered how far he'd walked.

“Can I get you anything?”

Aoba shook his head, patted his pockets. He hadn't gotten his paycheck yet.

“No money.” He fidgeted with a frayed string on his jacket sleeve, eyes on the menu in front of him. His mouth watered. “I won't stay too long—just need to sit for a second.”

The lady looked at him, blinking—but it would seem she didn't have the heart to kick him out.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

He dozed on the table, strange images flashing behind his eyelids—they weren't quite dreams, but he wasn't quite awake, either. He didn't even fidget when something clanked down beside him: a steaming, white mug, he noticed as he cracked one eye open. Beside it rested a ramekin of creamers and packets of sugar.

“Welcome!”

Aoba didn't stir aside from his wandering gaze. An unfamiliar face; he closed his eyes again.

He didn't know how long he rested, mind drifting, but at some point, he was roused, a woman with a stern expression and an unflattering shade of lipstick glaring down the bridge of her nose. The first woman wasn't in sight.

“You can't just sleep here.”

Aoba’s eyes flickered down to the mug and wrappers on the table; he'd only managed a few sips before drowsiness won him over.

“My bad.”

The lady clicked her tongue.

“Go home. It's past midnight.”

Aoba raised his eyebrows.

“That late?”

“Get out.”

Aoba rolled his eyes, but complied, however begrudgingly. He slid out of the booth and was out the door and standing on the corner soon enough, the smell of burnt coffee still fresh in his nose. The sign flashed behind him, half of the letters still burned out.  
  
What now?

He kicked a pebble, watching as it rolled off of the sidewalk and landed on the asphalt, out of his sight. He wished he could do that right about now: disappear.

An engine thrummed in the distance, setting him on edge. He knew not many people were out this late. Not the savory kind, at least.

He began to walk, disappointment heavy on his mind, in his heart. Part of him had hoped that maybe there was something waiting for him at that diner—or, better yet, _someone._

The sound grew closer. Aoba walked faster, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Closer, closer.

Aoba’s heart sped up.

The car rolled to a stop right beside him; Aoba felt like a cornered animal, all bared teeth and clenched fists as he faced the driver’s side window, ready to bolt. But that was before he saw who sat inside, window rolled all the way down.

He deflated.

“...Mink.”

Mink didn't look happy, not in the least; he looked exhausted, black bags beneath his eyes and a deep frown creasing his face. He looked _old._

“Get your ass in the car.”

With a sheepish look and his head tucked low, Aoba scurried to the passenger side door. He climbed in, hugging his legs to his chest, heart and hopes soaring. Mink drove in silence until they reached a red light.

“Don't ever do that again.”

Aoba pressed his mouth against his knees.

“...Why not?” He didn't sound confrontational; he sounded curious. It was genuine.

Mink clicked his tongue.

“It's my responsibility to make sure you're safe.”

Aoba frowned.

“...It's really not.”

“It is.”

Aoba snickered. He knew he probably shouldn't have been so relieved, but this meant Mink still cared, didn't it? Even after what Aoba had done?

“Whatever you say, old man.”

Aoba couldn't tell what Mink was thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! comments would make my week honestly <3 kudos too if you'd be so inclined! 
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who's kept up with me especially since i tend to go inactive for months at a time ahhh
> 
> until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos would be much appreciated!!! I hope this turned out ok and i'm sorry I've like fallen off the face of the universe ;;;;; 
> 
> thanks so much for reading!!


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